


Déjame

by spacegeography



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 13:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7172774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegeography/pseuds/spacegeography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting a concussion, Nick is having a hard time letting Rafael care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Déjame

The pavement was slick with rainwater and oil; Nick had already slipped and skidded a few times as he chased the perp. It had given the man an advantage but Nick was gaining on him. The gap got smaller – 20 feet, 10 feet. The perp kept glancing back, then around trying to find an escape but found none.

            Nick was nearly there, preparing himself for the rough impact of the tackle. Frantic, the perp slide to a stop and swung his arm to punch Nick’s jaw –

            Nick leaned back to avoid it but still got hit in the throat. The force made him loose his balance and his feet slipped out from under him. He fell, hitting his head hard on the pavement.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            “Really? Is there a time you’re not drinking coffee?” Rollins asked.

            Rafael took another gulp while giving her a pointed look. It was getting harder to for him to pull all-nighters (Jesus, how had he done it all through law school? He was ready for bed by 9 these days) and he didn’t appreciate being called into the prescient at 10pm.

            He gave a nod to the window to the interrogation room. “He lawyer up yet?” The suspect was in with Carisi, making angry gestures with one hand while Carisi tried to put Band-Aids on the long scrape on his forearm.

            “Not yet,” Rollins said, and pressed the intercom button so they could listen in.

            “You don’t need to go to the hospital,” Carisi said.

            “You’re no doctor! That lady tackled me. I could have internal bleeding.”

            “You want an ice pack? I can get you an ice pack,” Carisi said as he ripped one Band-Aid off under the guise of repositioning it.

            “God, juries love it when they run,” Rafael said. “This won’t be a tough one.”

            “Good. It was tough enough to catch him. Sarge and Nick chased him for four blocks.”    Rafael gave a huff of laughter before taking another sip of coffee.

            “You can add assaulting an officer to the list. He hit Nick pretty hard.”

            “I heard,” Rafael said, trying to keep his annoyance out of his voice. Nick had already texted him to let him know. Rafael had of course been worried but the more casual and almost flippant Nick’s responses became – insisting Rafael didn’t  have to come to the hospital, didn’t have to drive him home, didn’t have to come over that night – the more aggravated Rafael became.

            Especially because he was simultaneously texting Olivia.

            Nick said, “I’m fine Raf. Just a bump on the head. You don’t have to keep asking.”

            Olivia said, “He’s definitely concussed. Threw up on the paramedic, and he’s a little foggy.

            Rafael didn’t want to start a fight while Nick was still in the ER, so he stopped texting, tried to pay attention to Carisi and Rollins, and took out his anger by chugging two more cups of coffee.

            It wasn’t a good strategy, admittedly. By time he left the station the caffeine had made him jittery and even more agitated. He tapped his foot incessantly as he drafted his argument on his phone on his way to Nick’s. When he arrived, he had twelve bullet points, and each were a paragraph long. He’d even taken screenshots to present as evidence.

             Nick opened the door with a grumble, rubbing his eyes groggily. “Rafi, I told you you didn’t need to come over,” he said. “I’m fine; you didn’t need to come all the way out here.”

            “Well I did.” Rafael’s jaw was set. Clenched, really, in the effort it took to keep the rest of his body still.

            Nick heaved a sigh and opened the door more to let Rafael in. He shuffled his way over to the couch, the too long hems of his sweats dragging. He gestured for Rafael to sit before picking up an icepack and sinking down onto the couch with a slight groan.

            Rafael remained standing.

            “You have a concussion.”

            “Yeah, I noticed.”

            “Oh, so you know? That’s funny because you told me you had a ‘bump.’ Liv told me you have a concussion.”

            Nick shrugged. His eyes were closed; he couldn’t see the angry set of Rafael’s eyebrows, the way he held his phone in a white knuckled grip, how his muscles were tensing and bunching, wrinkling his suit. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said. “It’s not that bad anyway.” In some effort to prove it, he took away the icepack and pressed his fingers to the back of his head, which made him wince.

            Rafael sprang forward. “Don’t do that,” he scolded, and put the ice back in place. Nick shifted on the couch and held his arm out in invitation. He looked so pale and small. So Rafael squeezed in next to him, one leg off the couch, one arm pressed between the couch and Nick’s shoulders. But Nick sighed contently, his cheek resting against the top of Rafael’s head. The angry energy Rafael had been holding slowly dissipated to something less puissant.

            He took Nick’s hand in his own. “You don’t have to do that. Lie so I won’t worry about you.”

            “I didn’t want… I don’t know.”

            “I understand, cariño, but I’m an adult, you don’t have to protect me like that. I’m allowed to worry about you.” And he did, each day Nick went into work. A slight concussion was low on the list of things Rafael agonized over. One bullet and Nick would be gone while Rafael sat unaware in his office.

            “Sorry,” Nick whispered.

            “It’s okay. Just,” Rafael let out a breath. “It’s insulting that you don’t think it’s necessary to tell me the truth, or that I’ll… swoon or some shit if I hear you’ve been hurt.”

            “I know,” Nick said. He squeezed his eyes shut as he was hit with an overwhelming urge to cry. He couldn’t explain why the need to hide his injuries was so innate in him. Taking the time to really think about it, he knew, would force him to realize too many things about himself. He couldn’t make himself do it on a good day, let alone when he felt like all his thoughts were far away.

            “Let’s go to bed,” Rafael said gently. He knew the coffee would keep him up for a while, but he wanted to lie more comfortably with Nick. So he led them to bed and let Nick curl against him.

 

* * *

 

 

            Nick was lying on the couch. The TV was on, but he couldn’t focus on the screen long enough to know what was on. His mother was in the kitchen making dinner. There was pork in the oven and a can of chicken soup heating on the stovetop for him. The afghan his abuelita crocheted was wrapped around him. His mother came in and sat next to him, rubbing her hand in slow circles on his back.

            The front door opened and his father came into sight. Nick felt like he couldn’t breathe.

            “What’s this?” his father demanded.

            “Nicky’s got a cold.”

            Nick wanted to run to his room, lock the door, hide under the covers. But his body wouldn’t move.

            “Stay home from school?”

            “Yeah,” Nick said. His voice was odd, too high.

            “Yeah? Stayed home from school, make your mother look after you. You know you don’t look sick to me. You playin’ hooky?”

            “No.”

            “No?”

            “My throat hurts.”

            “Oh his highness’s throat hurts. I didn’t raise you to be such a pussy. Lying on the couch all day ’cause your throat hurts. You wanna be a pussy all your life or you wanna be a man?”

            Nick looked to his mother but she was gone, and he couldn’t see anything – it was just his father in front of him and the afghan over his body.

            “Come on, get up. I’ll make something really hurt and then you can go to your room and cry about it.”

            “No,” Nick said weakly; but his father was coming closer, the walls were closing in, and he was frozen, waiting for the pain.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Nick, Nick, cariño, wake up.”

            Rafael rubbed Nick’s arm and watched as his face slowly relaxed and his body stopped squirming restlessly.

            “Sorry,” Nick said when he was fully awake.

            “It’s okay.” Rafael moved his hand to Nick’s back but Nick flinched away.

            “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

            Nick rolled over and shut his eyes before Rafael could say anything else. Usually after a dream like that he would be awake for the rest of the night, but it turned out traumatic brain injuries were good for something because he quickly fell asleep again and stayed asleep.

            It was late morning when he woke up. He made his way out into the living room where Rafael was watching TV and eating a sandwich.

            “Hey.”

            “You’re up! How’s your head?”

            It was throbbing; pain radiated out in waves from the spot he’d hit and settle d in his temples and back. “It’s okay,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

            “It’s Sunday. I can take off tomorrow if –”

            “No, Rafi, you don’t need to do that,” Nick snapped. He was getting sick of Rafael acting like he needed to be babied. What did he expect to do for him? It was a minor concussion, not a broken leg.

            “I want to,” Rafael said firmly. He shook his head in mocking disbelief when Nick let out an annoyed huff. “Why is this bothering you so much? Nick Amaro, big shot detective, isn’t allowed to have people who care about him? Has to be some dramatic loner?”

            The anger built in Nick quickly like tectonic plates slipping and sparking an earthquake. He swept his arm across the kitchen counter that separated the living room, sending mail and a coffee cup to the floor. He stomped back to his room, thinking vaguely ow he would scold Zara for doing the same. But he didn’t care; he slammed the door and flopped back down on the bed, wiping angrily at the tears that had appeared.

            He laid still, watching the clock blink, until Rafael came in a few minutes later. He sat on the bed, keeping space between them. Nick wanted to lay his head on Rafael’s lap and cry some more. He shifted further away instead.

            “When I was eight,” Rafael said, “I fell off my bike and dislocated my shoulder. My dad called me a maricón because I couldn’t stop crying.”

            Nick bristled but said nothing.

            “So I get it. Not being able to show weakness. And I know you’ve spent your whole life protecting other people. I mean, you’re a cop, you literally made a living out of it.”

            “Shut up,” Nick said. “You’re not my therapist. And I’m not afraid you’ll think I’m weak or whatever. I’m just tired of you acting like I’m helpless. I have a headache. That’s it. I’m a grown man, I can take care of myself.”

            “I know you can. I’m not saying you can’t.” Rafael took a calming breath before he snapped. “How about you just let me keep you company?”

            “I’m sorry,” Nick said. He pressed his face into the pillow and cursed himself for not being able to control his emotions.

            Rafael put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. He wasn’t done with the conversation. But he didn’t want to overwhelm Nick. Getting him to accept help was going to take a lot of biting his tongue – a talent Rafael had never really had.

            He was resolved to make the effort, though. He and Nick went back out to the couch and cuddled together. Nick was practically lying on top of Rafael, his legs throw over Rafael’s and his head and arm on his chest. It was incredibly uncomfortable but Rafael wouldn’t dream of asking Nick to move. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Nick and only complained a little when nick put on a kids’ movie.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            His father was yelling. Nick was at his desk, keeping his eyes down. His mother had suggested he get a tutor for chemistry. The book was in front of him, but he couldn’t read it. The words were shifting, disappearing.

            “You wanna take the easy way out, huh? You think I should waste the money I work hard for because you won’t study? You’re a lazy son of a bitch, you know that? You’re not going anywhere til you do those problems.”

            Nick was sobbing, saying, “I can’t, I can’t.” He couldn’t focus his eyes on the equation, couldn’t remember how to do it. His mother was begging him, it sounded like she was getting hit, but he couldn’t look up from his textbook –

 

* * *

 

             Nick awoke with a slight jolt. The credits to _How to Train Your Dragon_ were rolling. Rafael put a bowl of spaghetti on the coffee table for him, and sat down with his on.

            “I got hungry,” He said.

            Nick pushed his bowl away. The smell made him feel sick. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he mumbled. He took his phone with him. There were texts from the squad checking up on him. He replied to each, saying he was fine, he’d be back to work soon.

            He stood in front of the mirror, staring down his reflection. He hated himself intensely. He wanted to smash his fist through the glass but gripped the edge of the sink instead. “You piece of shit,” he said through clenched teeth. He was pathetic, weak. He always was, always needed other people to clean up his messes – Munch, Liv, Rafael, his mother. He thought he could help people, but he was a joke, getting himself in trouble and then turning to them because he couldn’t fix anything himself. He couldn’t take care of himself, he couldn’t do anything.

            He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, dry-heaving. He needed to pull his life together, he needed to be a man, he needed to be completely different, he needed, he needed –

            “Rafi! Raf…” He rested his forehead on the seat, his vision going white as waves of hot and cold went over him.

            Rafael was there in an instant, kneeling beside him and rubbing his back. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

            “Lo siento, Lo siento, I can’t, I –”

            Nick leaned forward and threw up while Rafael stroked his hair. “I can’t…”

            “It’s okay,” Rafael said. He filled a dixie cup with water and offered it to Nick.

            He was sobbing. He couldn’t help it and he didn’t know how he was ever going to stop.

            “I’m right here mi amor, I love you. It’s going to be alright.”

 

* * *

 

 

            He was in his dorm room. It was bigger than he remembered. His mother was there, smoothing the covers of his bed.

            “Oh my baby boy going off to college. You call me once a week, young, those quarters aren’t just for laundry.”

            “I’ll be fine, ma.”

            “I know you will. You’re so grown up already, mijo. But you call me. I’m your mother, I worry.”

            “I love you.” Nick could feel it in his chest.

            “I love you, too. You come home as much as you want. You’ll be dying for a home cooked meal. I can’t believe I won’t ge to take care of my baby boy anymore.” She hugged him tight. He couldn’t tell who was taller. He let himself be held for a long time, enjoying the warmth and the smell of baby powder that always clung to her skin.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Rafi?” Nick whispered into the dark.

            They were in bed, Rafael pressed against his back, an arm holding Nick close.

            “Hmm?”

            “Will you take tomorrow off?”

            “Sure, quierdo. I’ll stay right here.”


End file.
